


Daughter of Mystra

by Anpwhotep (Yinepuhotep)



Series: Daughter of Mystra [1]
Category: Baldur's Gate
Genre: F/F, F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2009-12-20
Updated: 2009-12-20
Packaged: 2018-08-14 04:55:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7999345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yinepuhotep/pseuds/Anpwhotep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if the hero of Baldur's Gate was actually a villain, and Mystra herself stepped in to save Imoen from her, by sending Imoen to another world, where she couldn't follow?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Fred? Why does your wizard box … all right, all right, tell-a-vision … treat magic as if it were something out of a bad story?"

I groaned at the question. Imoen doesn't ask philosophical questions very often, but when she does, they're always the hard ones.

"What's wrong?" Imoen asked, then giggled and poked my chest with a fingertip. "Am I making you work your brain?"

Lada looked up from her knitting and grinned at me. "She asked _you_ the question, so don't even _try_ to drag me into it."

"Gee, thanks," I shot at Lada, who stuck her tongue out at me before returning to her knitting. "I'll take you up on that later," I added, getting a brilliant blush from her in response. I turned my attention to Imoen and thought about my answer for a moment. Apparently, she saw the look on my face, because she sat up and rested her chin on her fists, while looking at me with the Big Eyes. She must have practiced – a lot – on her sister, because she had that look down cold. I dredged up one of the many tacks I'd thought of in the days since her arrival, and decided to go with the personal answer. "Remember the condition the two of us were in when you arrived here?"

"Remember?" Imoen answered. "How could I forget? Both of you looked like you were on your last legs, like you'd been suffering from some kind of disease that made you so weak you could barely care for yourselves!"

"We were," I said, as Lada nodded in agreement. "We were both suffering from a disease that kills slowly, by making the victim too weak to care for himself, while simultaneously, wracking him with unending pain that, if he's lucky, becomes so normal that he wouldn't notice if a wizard were to cast a curse of pain on him."

"That sounds like a curse all by itself," Imoen said. "And you both had it?"

"We did," Lada said, "until you made that wish."

"That's how rare magic is in this world," I said. "We don't even have priests who can cure diseases or heal injuries the way you can. If other people were to learn of your powers, I wouldn't be surprised if our government were to try to imprison you so they could study you."

"No!" Imoen cried, curling up and hugging her knees to her chest. "Never again … never again."

I drew her into my arms and hugged her tight, while Lada put down her knitting and moved to her other side. While Imoen buried her face in my chest, sobbing, Lada gently took her hands and suggested, "Why don't you tell us what happened? It might help."

Imoen clung to me, shaking and sobbing, while Lada gently stroked her hands, for several minutes. How long, I don't know, and don't particularly care. It was long enough, and that's all that matters.

"I … I don't know," Imoen said, her voice shaking. "It's a long story, and not a very happy one."

"Imoen," I said, my voice as gentle as I could make it, while I raised a hand and stroked her hair, "we know that already. You wouldn't be so unhappy if the story were a happy one. And …," I paused, not sure how to put it, then decided to just plunge ahead and hope I didn't terrorize her by doing so, "… you know that box I spend so much time in front of? The scribe, accountant, music, and everything else box?"

"Your … com-pewter?" Imoen asked, looking up at me.

"That's right," I said, smiling in what I hoped was a reassuring expression. "I can also play games on it. One of the games that I play on it is the story of two young people who grew up in a place named Candlekeep, who were forced to flee when a villain named Sarevok murdered the foster father of one. They eventually hunted him down and stopped his mad plot to become the new God of Murder."

"A … game?" Imoen asked, pulling away and staring at me in shock. "A _game_? Our life, made into a _game_?"

"It's more like interactive storytelling," I said. "You can change parts of the story to make it more heroic, to ease the characters' suffering, or to make them pursue any number of goals. But the important thing is, the story in the game is just that: a story. It's not you." I took a deep breath and placed a finger on Imoen's lips, just as she was about to speak, and said, "And another one tells about your battle against Irenicus. It wasn't specific about what he did, but we know that he tortured you. You don't have to fill in the details. All you have to do is understand that we know, and that you are safe with us. No matter what, we will be a safe haven for you. Always."

Lada rolled her eyes, and Imoen lowered her head, her hair fell around her face, and her shoulders began to shake. I reached out to rest a hand on her back, and I felt the spasms coursing through her. It was sobs, or so I thought. But soon, the sounds she was making grew loud enough that I could tell that it was laughter – bitter, pained laughter, of the kind I'd experienced myself when remembering my ex-wife, or my parents.

"A … safe … haven?" Imoen grated out between spasms of laughter. "There … _is_ … no … safe … haven." She raised her head and looked at me, her eyes haunted, and hissed, "I am a child of _Bhaal_. My father was the God of _Murder_! There is no place in the world that is safe! Not for me, and not for anyone close to me!"

"No place in _your_ world, you mean," I said. "We're not in your world. Even if one of your siblings managed to take Bhaal's place, that's not in _this_ world. The only one who _might_ be able to find you in this world is Elminster, and that's only because he's Mystra's Chosen. Without Mystra's help, no one … not even another God … will be able to find you."

"You hope," Imoen said softly. "But will it be as empty as my hope that Penelope would turn back from the Darkness?"

"Well …," I started, thought a moment, then asked, "Imoen, what happened just before you came here?"

"Just before …," Imoen closed her eyes, shuddered, and said softly, "Penny and I had just managed to reach the surface … I still don't know where we were. All I know is that it was bright and sunny, and we came up in the middle of a battle between a wizard and a bunch of assassins. He must have been Irenicus, because as soon as he killed the assassins, he started ranting about how he was going to take us back for more experiments. I started to fight back, when a half-dozen wizards teleported in and announced they were going to take in everyone who was involved in illegal use of magic. I was so scared, I called out to Mystra to protect me. The next thing I knew, I had teleported into your room, without casting a spell of my own."

"There you have it," I said. "Mystra sent you here. That means She must believe you're safe here. Admittedly, appearing in my lap was kind of a shock – for both of us – but that's the kind of shock I can live with, as long as it means you're safe."

"But, why?" Imoen asked. "Why would you care about me, or about Mystra, or any of it?"

Lada grinned at me, behind Imoen's back, as if to say, "Let's see you get out of _this_."

"Lots of reasons," I said. "Starting with you."

"Me?" Imoen asked, sitting up and looking at me suspiciously.

"Yes," I said. "You. That game I told you about? The number one reason I enjoy playing it is because of a certain perky little sister with the personality of a hyperactive squirrel on a sugar rush."

"The …," Imoen started, trailed off, then began giggling. Her giggles quickly changed to laughter, and she poked me, several times, while attempting to speak – each attempt hijacked by another bout of laughter.

"Don't you mean ferret?" Lada asked.

"Hmmm," I said, watching Imoen dissolve into laughter again. "She rather _is_ acting like Kiki right now, isn't she?"

Imoen tried to say something, lost it in another peal of laughter, and settled for sticking her tongue out at me.

"Careful," I teased. "You don't want to be making offers like that, do you?"

Lada clapped a hand over her mouth and turned red, obviously trying to hold back laughter.

"Offers?" Imoen managed to get out, as her laughter began to wind down.

"Uh-huh," I said, nodding gravely. "You may have noticed, since you healed us both, that we're rather … openly affectionate."

"I would have said, fucking like bunnies," Imoen murmured, not quite softly enough. Lada turned a brilliant crimson, while I grinned in shameless agreement.

"And so," I said, "we are more than happy to welcome you to join us. At your own speed, of course, and without any pressure one way or the other." I winked and added, "Of course, if you're going to put out an open invitation like that, don't be surprised if you get teased about it."

Imoen looked at Lada and asked, "What about you? Doesn't that bother you?"

Lada eeped, then squeaked out, "N-no. Why should it?"

"Isn't he _your_ man?" Imoen asked.

"Well, technically," Lada said, "I'm his, but, I don't think that's what you meant."

Imoen looked between me and Lada, confusion obvious in her expression. "What? Technically, you're his?"

"Yeah," I said. "I suppose it's not that obvious, but Lada prefers being submissive, and I prefer being dominant, so she's my pet and I'm her master."

"Can I just say," Imoen said, "that that's just freaky?" She looked at Lada and asked, "Is that for real? You _like_ it that way?"

Lada blushed and sputtered, then nodded and said, "Uh-huh!" She hesitated, then added, "I don't know why I said that. What I usually say is, he's his own man, he's not mine."

"Freaky," Imoen said, shook her head, and looked at me. "So, you're interested in me because of your game, huh? Why?"

"I have a weakness for genki girls?" I suggested. "Or would you say I have a weakness for the little sister type?"

"Genki?" Imoen asked, looking to Lada for a translation.

"It's definitely the little sister type," Lada said, "um, I certainly wasn't genki, um, genki, um, perky, hyper, cheerful … I'm missing something, Fred?"

"Can't forget, cheerfully brave in the face of impossible odds," I filled in.

"And you … see that … in _me_?" Imoen asked. She looked into the distance and mused, "Was I ever like that?"

"I suppose it doesn't seem like that now," I said, reaching out to take her hand. "But try to remember back to when you were just leaving Candlekeep. For that matter, remember back to before you left, when you were dodging Winthrop's chores in favor of finding out what interesting things were behind locked doors."

"There were lots of interesting things," Imoen said, chuckling softly as she wrapped her fingers around mine. "Old Puffguts never did figure out where I got off to when I disappeared." She frowned and whispered, "If only Penny hadn't been able to."

"Lada's right, though," I said. "As much as I find genki girls to be cute and all, they've always seemed to be too full of energy for me – at least, until now. But the little sister type? I seem to attract them the way honey attracts bees. Don't know why, but even when I'm romantically interested in someone, she always seems to think of me as the big brother type."

"And you'd be horribly disappointed if I did, too, wouldn't you?" Imoen teased, while grinning shamelessly at me. "So what other reasons did you have for caring about me, or my situation?"

"The second most important reason is who I worship." I chuckled softly. "Most other people in this world would probably think I'm crazy, but it works for me, as much as worshiping _any_ God does in this world."

"So … that's where you disappear every day at sunrise and sunset?" Imoen asked.

"That's right," I said. "That's why I kick both of you out of my room, twice a day. I do it so I can pray to Kelemvor."

" _Kelemvor_?" Imoen blurted, staring at me in surprise. "Kelemvor? Are you serious? Gond, I could see. Oghma, I could see. But, _Kelemvor_?"

"That's right," I said. "Admittedly, I've only been following Kelemvor for a year or two, but even before Him, I followed Inpu, one of the Gods who wasn't copied by the Mulhorandi pantheon. Even as a kid, I followed Inpu. He is the God who watches over, guides, and protects the dead in their journey from this world to the next. Given how much the Gods respond to their worshipers in this world, worshiping Kelemvor makes just as much sense as worshiping any God who is native to _this_ world."

"So why does that make any difference as far as me?" Imoen asked.

"Given that I worship Kelemvor, that means I also recognize the other Gods of your world, right?" I explained. "That means I'm already known to Mystra, since she's both the Goddess most likely to notice this world, and Kelemvor's ex."

"Kelemvor's ex?" Imoen asked. "Since when? The last I knew, they were still lovers."

"Not for long," I said. "According to what I've read, Kelemvor is undergoing, or is about to undergo, a severe change that will split them apart, permanently. And, yes, you can thank Cyric for that."

"Damned pissant Zhent, never should have been made a God," Imoen muttered.

"Maybe so," I agreed, "but you have to admit, he fills his role perfectly. Although, stealing the portfolio of Intrigue from Mask was a case of Mask tripping himself up, not of Cyric being better for the job."

"Stealing … huh?" Imoen asked, staring at me like I'd grown a second head.

"It's 1368 in your world, right?" I asked.

"Yes … just after Shieldmeet," Imoen said. "I think, anyway. I don't know how long we were prisoners."

"Right," I said. "Cyric is currently trying to usurp the positions of _all_ the Gods, and as part of his plot, he charged Kelemvor and Mystra with failing in their duties as Gods. Since Mystra was able to send you here, either she hasn't been imprisoned yet, or Mask already helped her escape from her prison. If she hasn't been imprisoned yet, then Kelemvor hasn't changed yet. If she has, then she and Kelemvor are no longer lovers, but she still loves him, even if she feels that he betrayed her."

"Uh … you're going to have to tell me all about this later," Imoen said. "For now, I'll just believe that Mystra sent you here because you worship Kelemvor."

"No problems," I said. "So, those are the two primary reasons, I'm sure. I'm fascinated by you, and I'm someone that Mystra knew she could count on."

"All right," Imoen said. "So what do we do now?"

"Good question," I said. "Thanks to your wish, we're both in perfect health now – well, except for Lada's blindness, so we can't honestly justify living off our disability pensions..."

"So, why not go adventuring?" Imoen asked, grinning.

"Because this world doesn't offer the opportunity to do so," I said. "Maybe a couple hundred years ago, but now? You'd end up in jail for vagrancy, at the very least."

"You're kidding, right?" Imoen asked, looking from me to Lada. "He's kidding, isn't he?"

"No, he's not," Lada said. "My disability isn't in jeopardy, but, it would be nice to _try_ working. But we need to find someone to get papers for Imoen. But that takes money."

"And contacts," I said, "which neither of us have."

"Papers?" Imoen asked.

"Yeah," I said. "Papers. Identity documents. Birth certificate, social security card, passport or driver's license or state identification card, all that kind of thing."

"Which reminds me," Lada said, "we don't look like the pictures on our IDs any more, honey." She laughed. "And when do our clothes show up?"

"Let me check," I said, studiously ignoring Imoen'g giggles as I opened Firefox and checked the package tracking information on the UPS website. "OK, according to this, our Hot Topic order should be here today sometime, our Walmart order will probably be here tomorrow, and our Pegasus Publishing order just made it to New Jersey."

"Hot Topic?" Lada squeaked, her face turning a lovely red. "Good thing our medicine bill has gone down."

"Yup," I said, grinning shamelessly. "Hot Topic. After all, I have to make sure that there are clothes in the house that will go with both auburn and pink hair."

"Purple," Lada said, looking at her braid.

"Oh, you want purple?" I asked. "OK, I'll order that next time. I ordered pink for Imoen."

"You're going to dye Imoen's hair pink?" Lada asked, looking and sounding confused.

"You got pink hair color for me?" Imoen squee'ed, practically bouncing with happiness. "Thank you!"

"I remembered," I said, laughing softly. "And I thought you'd like the surprise. So, there'll be hair color, some cosmetics, and a few items of clothing in today's delivery, and a whole lot more clothes tomorrow, and it looks like the rest of our clothes should be here by the end of the week."

"Good," Lada said. "I've got cabin fever."

"We'll get out of here for the day, just as soon as we have enough clothes to not get arrested," I said. "I could get away with wearing my robe, but I'd probably end up smelling like a sweaty racehorse by the end of the day."

Lada snorted and shook her head, a smile on her face.

"It would suit you," Imoen laughed. "Although I think the proper color for a priest of Kelemvor is gray, not brown."

Lada groaned and pinched the bridge of her nose.

"What's wrong, love?" I laughed. "Afraid she's giving me ideas I didn't already have?"

"For that, you get to frog your sweater yourself," Lada humphed.

"But it's so comfy!" I protested, laughing. I wrapped my arms around myself as I said, "I could do this with it!"

"Twice!" Lada shot back. "It was too big for you before!"

"You mean that orc-sized sweater?" Imoen asked, looking at the two of us as if we were crazy.

"Yup," I laughed. "That's the one."

"Mmmm," Lada whimpered. "Whimper. It's not even half-orc sized? It's full orc sized? Waaa!"

"That's right," Imoen said, giggling maniacally. "And you knitted that yourself? You must really _love_ knitting!"

"She does," I said. "It keeps her sane when dealing with me."

"Now that," Imoen teased, "I can understand. You're male, and you're utterly bonkers. Of _course_ she needs something to keep her sane."

I stuck my tongue out at Imoen. She giggled and winked at me, then teased, "So, does that promise go both ways?"

"I'm going to pick up my laptop, and go kill things," Lada announced, putting her knitting away. "I have a troll to level."

"A troll?" Imoen asked, peering at Lada, confused. "Trolls are for killing. Nasty things, too. They only die if you use fire or acid on them."

"My troll has teal hair and is very cute, thank you very much," Lada humphed. After a moment of holding her expression of injured dignity, she gave up and collapsed in a fit of giggles.

"She's talking about World of Warcraft," I told Imoen. "It's another game. In that game, you can play a troll, and they're nothing like the trolls you're familiar with. Well, other than being cannibalistic, berserk, and healing damned easily."

Lada nodded, trying hard to hold in her giggles. "The best way to a man's heart is between his third and fourth rib. And when enraged and in heat, a female troll can mate up to forty times in a single night."

"… ow," Imoen whispered. "That's just … ow."

"Which part of that?" Lada asked, trying hard to look innocent.

Imoen looked at Lada for a moment, then fell over laughing. "You … you …."

"I think you broke her," I said, doing my best to look grave. "Now you're going to have to fix her."

"I was going to go kill murlocs so you could do that," Lada squeaked.

"You broke it, you bought it," I intoned. "Of course, she might need double the fixing, after all this."

"I'm right here!" Imoen protested, then collapsed in laughter again.

"You're absolutely right," I said, and bent down to kiss Imoen. She gasped in surprise, then wrapped her arms around me and returned the kiss enthusiastically.

"I'm missing someone," Imoen announced, when we came up for air. "Lada? Come here."

Lada blinked, like a deer in headlights, and nodded, as I reached out for her hand. I gave her a gentle tug, and she stumbled into Imoen's arms.

Imoen kissed her, just as enthusiastically as she had kissed me, then announced, "Mmmm. I think I'm going to have to work on my technique. You don't seem as excited as Fred."

"I think she's scared," I whispered to Imoen. "Every girlfriend she's ever had before, turned out to be a raving psychopathic bitch. I think she's afraid she's going to turn you into one, too."

"She's going to turn me …?" Imoen asked, then laughed and gave Lada a quick peck. "You, my dear, have no idea!"

Lada's eyes got wider, and she whimpered. "Raving psychopathic bitch?"

"That's the way you've described them," I said, grinning. "Trust me, if anyone was going to turn Imoen into one of those, it would have been her recently-deceased brother."

"Or Penny," Imoen said softly, and hugged both of us tightly. "Sarevok … he was nothing … just … hold me?"

Lada and I both wrapped our arms around Imoen and hugged her tightly between us.


	2. Chapter 2

"I like that," Imoen said. "What is it?"

"Let me check," I said, while mousing over my dock to see what was playing. "Ah. Unpayable Silence, by Mittnatsol. How are you feeling?"

"Bored," Imoen said. "Lada introduced me to Final Fantasy, but it's just not the same as real life. In real life, I would have backstabbed Seymour the first chance I got."

"I know what you mean," I laughed. "He oozed slime, right from the first meeting. So what do you think …?" The sound of someone knocking on the front door interrupted us. "Maybe that's UPS. Let's go see."

"Fred!" Lada called from the living room. "It's UPS!"

"Coming!" I called back. I grinned at Imoen and said, "Our first shipment of new clothes. Let's see what you and Lada think of them."

Imoen snorted, grinned at me, and bounced down the hallway ahead of me. _Good. She's doing better than she was yesterday. That's a big relief._ At the front door, Lada was signing the delivery form for the UPS man. Once he was gone, I picked up the box from the porch and brought it in, then set it down in front of the TV. I sat in the recliner, and Lada and Imoen sat on the sofa, while I cut open the box.

"So, let's see what we have in here, eh?" I said, grinning. I picked up the packing list, and laughed. "Oh dear. This isn't Walmart. This is Pegasus Publishing. Looks like the shipping website was confused. Still, there's some good stuff in here."

"Oh no," Lada groaned, hiding her face in her hands. "You didn't stock up on lab coats and MU stuff, did you?"

"Maaaaaybe," I shot back, grinning. I began removing items from the box and piling them in three different stacks. Lab coats, mad scientist shirts, Miskatonic University t-shirts and sweatshirts, and caffeine shirts for me. Chocolate, Jack Skellington, Zim, and Buffy shirts for Lada. A couple Green Linen Shirts, +5 t-shirts, a shirt that offered espresso and a free kitten to unattended children, and a Godzilla World Tour t-shirt for Imoen. And finally, a couple "Captain Jack Harkness never slept here" shirts for each of us.

Lada looked at the pile of clothes, then at me, and squeaked, "All this? How?"

"Like you said, we don't need all those meds any more," I said. "The way I figure it, the only meds we need for sure are your glaucoma meds, so we'll be saving this much money every month now."

"I don't understand that," Imoen said. "When I made my wish, I wished that everyone in the house would be in perfect health."

"I was born with glaucoma," Lada said. "Every medical problem I developed after I was born is gone now. But the glaucoma is still here."

"I think that's it," I said. "Since she was born with it, it's as much a part of her as her missing eye."

"But it's not perfect health," Imoen said.

"It is for me," Lada said. "And I'm grateful. Really."

"So, who's going to try on a new shirt first?" I asked.

"I will," Imoen said, peeled off her tunic, and slipped into her Godzilla shirt. "Wow. This is nice. I've never had a new shirt that was this soft and comfortable. They always scratch when you first get them."

"I know," I said. "T-shirts are great that way. Even polo shirts scratch around the seams when you first get them, but I've never had that problem with a t-shirt."

I peeled off my own – four sizes too large – shirt and replaced it with one of my new Miskatonic shirts. "Yeah, this is better. Lada? What's wrong?"

Lada was looking at Imoen. At my question, she jumped, then looked at me, blushing. "I need new bras. I wish I could get away without them, like Imoen can, but I can't."

"What's a bra?" Imoen asked.

"It's an undergarment," I said, when Lada sputtered and didn't get any words out. "It supports your breasts, without binding like a corset or bodice."

Imoen looked down at her chest, then at Lada's, and hmm'ed thoughtfully. "You know, that's one reason I still wear my armor, even though it interferes with some of my spells. When you're doing something really physical, it can be really uncomfortable if you don't have support."

"So, we'll have to measure you for bras, then," I said. "We'll have to do that for Lada, too, given how much smaller she is now. We should have done that when we were measuring you for other clothes."

"We couldn't think of everything," Lada said. "And what we needed most was clothes that would keep us from being arrested when we leave the house."

"And that don't require a bungie cord to keep them from falling off," I said, grumbling as I looked at my pants, currently held up by a bungie cord that was wrapped twice around my waist.

"But that means it'll be harder to get them off," Imoen teased. Lada squeaked and hid behind her laptop, and I snorted and stuck my tongue out at Imoen. "You know what _that_ means," Imoen shot back. "Of course, given how well you demonstrated your knowledge yesterday, I'm not going to complain."

Lada let out a weak whimper, and Imoen shifted her attention away from me as she reached out a hand to Lada. Lada looked at her, frozen for a moment, then took Imoen's hand. I scooped up my collection of shirts and lab coats and retreated to my room. It looked to me like I'd have plenty of time to level my own toon.

"What do you call this kind of cheese?" Imoen asked.

"Feta," Lada and I answered, practically in stereo.

"It's good," Imoen said. "Tastes like goat's milk. That's one of the things I remember from Candlekeep. We kept goats, and made cheese. A lot of cheese. It's the best way to keep milk, you know?"

"Yogurt's good, too," I said. "I make it sometimes, when we have enough money to buy three or four gallons of milk at once."

"Yogurt?" Imoen asked. "I don't think I know what that is. Does it go with olives the way this cheese does?" She grinned, a cheerful, shameless grin that brought a question to mind – one that I wasn't sure I wanted to know the answer to.

"Imoen," I asked, "how old are you? Seventeen? Eighteen? Nineteen?"

"Oh, I just turned sixteen at Shieldmeet," Imoen said.

I groaned. Yup. I really had not wanted to know the answer to that question. Lada squeaked. Imoen looked between us, confused.

"Is something wrong?" Imoen asked.

"Stupid laws," I said. "According to our laws, Lada and I are both criminals. Me, since yesterday. Her, since this afternoon."

"Because of my age?" Imoen asked, confused at first, then a look of understanding filling her. "That's the most stupid thing I've ever heard! If you're old enough to carry a sword and kill a goblin, you're old enough. Period." She grumbled under her breath for a moment, then added, "Besides, it's not as if you were my first. Well, you were my first _man_ , but the only thing Lada was first at was being the first woman who didn't _rape_ me!"

Lada reached out to Imoen, who looked at her hand, then into her eyes, then cuddled against her.

"Penny, I take it?" I asked. "How long?"

"Since I was ten," Imoen said, clutching Lada's arm for support, while Lada held her close. As she started speaking, the words poured out of her like water from a broken dam. "The monks always congratulated themselves on introducing us as soon as I came to Candlekeep. What they didn't know was that the very first day, Penny took me to her secret hiding place, down in the crypts, tied me up, and raped me until …," she took a deep breath. "She raped me until I broke. Every day, from that day until the day we were imprisoned, she repeated it. Even when we were on the road, hunting Sarevok." Imoen looked at me, rage burning in her eyes. "I had to wear a _diaper_ under my armor! Because of _her_! Because of _what she did_! And everyone thought I was this cheerful, innocent thing, who looked up to her like she was my big sister! I didn't look up to her! I was terrified of her! She was my Mistress! She owned me! Everything I did, everything I was, hell, even everything I _thought_ , I was entirely her property! She wouldn't let men touch me. If a man even _looked_ at me, she would beat me until I passed out. But that only applied to _men_. You know, humans, elves, dwarves, orcs … four-legged males were another matter entirely."

"What did she make you do?" I asked, as gently as I could, while she squeezed Lada until her knuckles turned white. It seemed to me, what we were doing was like lancing a wound, and like lancing a wound, all the poison we could possibly express had to be forced out, so it didn't stay hidden deep inside, where it could fester and cause more infection.

"Dogs," Imoen hissed. "She kept a pack of guard dogs down there, and they were all male, of course. And she kept a stallion. A riding stallion that was so agile, it could walk down the stairs to the crypts without losing its footing. And whenever she summoned something, she always managed to make sure it was male, and if it was built for it, she would offer me for its pleasure." Imoen was looking into the distance by now, her eyes glazed over as she spoke. "I've been had by imps and quasits, by wolves and bears, by lions and tigers and boars and stags and …." She trailed off, then laughed bitterly. "I think the only woodland creature I haven't been had by is a unicorn. As if a unicorn _would_ have me." She looked me in the eyes and added, "Did you know, she once got her hands on some scrolls … the spells on them were way beyond her ability to use without the magic of the inscriptions, of course … and summoned up a succubus to teach her better ways to torture and use me. And then, just to make sure she had learned everything she could, she summoned an erinyes to teach her the same lessons. And, of course, I was the demonstration model for both sets of lessons. Both the demon and the devil were so amused that someone would summon them to learn such a subject, that the only price they demanded was the use of me. Penny allowed each of them to do with me as she wished, for a full month, as long as I was returned to her without any additional visible scars, with my soul intact, without any new insanities, and immediately after the user was dismissed to her home plane." She shook her head and finished, "Somehow, I don't think that what we have shared here even compares to that. And for some idiot rulers to make laws forbidding it? Just because of what? My age? I would sooner have my memories of the last week – especially the last two days – than any of my memories of the previous six years."

OK, I had been trying to help with this, but Imoen had managed to surprise me so thoroughly I just sort of sat there, stunned, until Lada squeaked, "Ow? Fred? Pillow? Please?"

I jumped, surprised, and saw that Lada's hand was spasming and turning blue, all the way back up to where Imoen's arm was wrapped around hers. I looked around and grabbed Sergei, my stuffed tiger, then offered him to Imoen. "Imoen? Why don't you hug this, OK? His name is Sergei, and he's had plenty of practice at being hugged."

Imoen gave me a confused look, but took Sergei, and hugged him with both arms, tight against her chest. While she did that, I took Lada's arm and massaged her hand until I was able to make out her blood vessels under her skin again. Once that emergency was taken care of, I looked at Imoen and said gently, "It'll be ok, Imoen. I think you've figured us out by now, and know how likely we are to do anything to hurt you."

"Not likely at all," Imoen snorted. "Back home, you'd both be chewed up and spit out before your first day was over."

"Maybe so," I said, "but at least it means you know we're not ever likely to do what she did, right?"

"I'd be more likely to see you flying without a carpet," Imoen said. She looked at Lada and said, "You need to stop punishing yourself, OK? I seem to recall that I seduced you, not the other way around. And I did it because you're _not_ like Penny. You're so much not like her that it's hard to believe that you could be sitting there and trying to punish yourself the way you are right now." She looked at me and smiled. "You, you're probably sitting there trying to figure out how you could have guessed my age wrong. So what age _do_ you have to be before they admit that you're an adult here? Twenty?"

"Eighteen," I said, while wondering how she'd figured out so easily what was running through my head.

"I'm a thief, remember?" Imoen said. "Between that and six years of having to read Penny's moods, without being telepathic, I've learned quite a few tricks for reading body language. Both of you are so open you might as well have your thoughts printed on the wall over your heads."

"That would make for a messy wall," I said, while doing my best to look innocent.

Imoen snorted, obviously trying to hold back laughter. After a moment, she gave up on the restraint and threw a pillow at me, while Lada looked as if she were trying to decide whether to join in, or protect me from Imoen. I picked up the pillow and began swinging it at Imoen, who grabbed another one to use in her defense. It wasn't long before both of us had fallen off the sofa, and were laying on the living room floor, laughing until our ribs ached.

"Lada?" Imoen asked, once she caught her breath, "why did you think you had to protect Fred from me?"

"I didn't," Lada protested. "I mean, not really, I mean, umm …."

"It's OK," I said. "Imoen isn't Delia." I looked at Imoen and said, "Just like you and Lada, I was involved with an abusive woman, too. I was married to her for twelve years, before I finally found the means to escape her and end my marriage. That was long before I knew Lada."

"You were …," Imoen started, trailed off, then shook her head. "How?"

"I was raised to believe that there is never an excuse for a man to hit a woman," I said. "Once she realized I would never fight back, she took advantage of it, and began a systematic campaign to break me down, demean and dehumanize me, until, by the end, I was convinced that I was worthless as a human being, and my only purpose in life was to support her and her whims, no matter how outrageous they were. Luckily, I had friends who wouldn't stand by while she destroyed me, and one day I found myself on a plane to the home of one of them, 3,000 miles away from my wife. I met Lada a couple years after my divorce was final, but even so, she has spent at least part of her time putting me back together."

"So," Imoen mused, "all three of us have been broken in one way or another." She grinned and asked, her eyes sparkling with humor, "So, does that make us a bunch of crackpots?"

"I'm not a crackpot," I laughed. "I'm MAD!" I sat up, threw out my chest, held a finger in the air, and proclaimed, in the most outrageously overdone tone I could manage, "SCIENCE, can SAVE THE WORLD!"

"Uh-oh," Lada said, "Now we're in trouble."

"Why's that?" Imoen asked. "It's not as if he has a laboratory, right?"

"He has a computer," Lada said. "He's probably going to start writing another story."

"Oh?" Imoen asked. "Is that all?" She grinned and winked at Lada. "That just means you and I can sit out here and plot without interruptions."

"Go ahead with your plots," I laughed. "I just got a bunny to feed, that might make us a few pennies."

"I still think you should record your stories for Escape Pod," Lada said. "You might attract publishers that way."

"I just might," I agreed. "I'll have to look through my collection and see what would work best in an audio format."

"What bunny?" Imoen asked, obviously confused.

"A plot bunny," I said. "It's what we call ideas that pop up and insist on being written, just like a bunny pops up and insists on nibbling on your garden. They tend to multiply like bunnies, too, until you have more than you can ever use. I have files that are nothing but lists of plot ideas, that I refer to when I need to work on a story, but am short on inspiration."

"You know," Imoen said, "that actually makes sense." She looked at me and laughed. "I think I'm catching whatever insanity it is that you have."

"Good!" I said, then grinned and started down the hall to my computer. "You and Lada can do whatever it is you have in mind while I do some work."

"We need to start packing stuff," Lada said. "We've needed to move for some time now, and with you here, it's more urgent than it was before. Not that it wasn't already urgent, what with the condition of the house."

"Like the sheets of plywood covering the rotten spots in the floor?" Imoen asked.

"Like that," Lada agreed.

By then, I was far enough away that I couldn't hear whatever their further conversation involved.


	3. Chapter 3

"So what do you think?" I asked, after Imoen had had a chance to taste dinner. Today, I'd decided to fix baked chicken leg quarters, marinated in a mixture of lime juice, olive oil, minced garlic, and a few herbs I had laying around the kitchen. Lada wasn't a big fan of chicken in general, so she ate it just because it was food, but I tried to make it interesting and flavorful despite her lack of interest.

Imoen took a bite, chewed it thoughtfully, then smiled up at me. "I think you've got it right with this mix," she said. "Can you remember what you used, in case I ask you for this chicken recipe again?"

"I should be able to," I said. "I supposed I'd better write it down before I forget it, if it's that good."

"I suppose you should," Imoen laughed. "Seriously, this really _is_ good. I wouldn't mind eating chicken more often, if it were this good every time."

"Hello, the house!" a voice called from outside the front door.

Imoen and I looked at each other, while Lada jumped in surprise, nearly knocking her plate off her table. Imoen nodded to me, slipped a dagger out of its forearm sheath and held it in her left hand, and began preparing a spell with her right hand. I stopped at the coat rack by the door, opened my carry vest, and slipped one of my 1911A1s out of its holster before opening the door.

"About time," the old man on the front step grumbled. He was dressed in well-worn black robes, leaning on a gnarled staff, and had a nice-looking dark, shiny pipe in his mouth. His hair and beard were gray, and both were long enough to cover any number of things he might have wanted to hide, although the thick, greenish-gray smoke from his pipe did a good enough job of hiding things on its own. Despite the grumbling, his eyes had a gleam of amusement and curiosity in them.

"I wondered how long it would take you to get here," I said, as I stepped back to let him in. "Imoen's in the living room. Did Mystra give you any details?"

"It's nice to know I won't have to explain myself," Elminster said. "Thank you for the ready welcome."

"We were just sitting down to dinner," I said. "Would you like to join us?"

"No, no, you go on," Elminster said. "I won't be but a few minutes."

"Who is it?" Imoen called, as Elminster stepped through the door. Seeing who it was, she squealed happily, put her dagger back in its sheath, and ran to embrace him. "Elminster!"

"What is it with you and pretty young ladies?" I laughed, as Elminster half-heartedly grumbled about wrinkles in his robes.

"Ye'll have to ask them, won't you?" Elminster chuckled in response to my question. He returned Imoen's embrace, then rested his hands on her shoulders and held her at arm's length while he examined her critically.

"I didn't mean to be trouble," Imoen said softly, fidgeting under Elminster's gaze.

"Little one," Elminster said, the gentleness of his tone far more genuine than the grumbling of a few moments before, "if there's one thing ye've not been, it's trouble. Our Lady is right pleased with ye at the moment, I'll have ye know."

"She …," Imoen asked, a look of surprise on her face, "Mystra is pleased with me?"

"That she is, child," Elminster said. "Ye've taken to this new world with grace and will, and She's right proud of ye."

"I'm no child," Imoen growled. "I haven't been one since the day I was taken to Candlekeep."

"Whoa, there," Elminster said. "What brings this on?"

"Penelope," I said, as I squeezed past Elminster to hold Imoen in my arms. "Gorion failed in raising her. And neither Gorion nor Winthrop, nor any of the monks of Candlekeep, noticed – for if they did notice, they chose to not act, and I find that positively unconscionable – the horrors Penelope was visiting on Imoen."

"Hello?" Lada said, pushing her table away from the sofa and standing. She took one of Imoen's hands and squeezed it as she walked past us to face Elminster. "From what they're saying, I take it that you're Elminster? My name is Lada."

"Aye," Elminster said, looking from Lada to Imoen curiously. "I am Elminster. Perhaps you can enlighten me regarding the lass' strong reaction to my words?"

"It's really simple," Lada said. "From the time Penelope entered her life, Imoen has been living in Hell. She didn't escape that hell until she was sent here. She's suffered more in the last six years than anyone else could have in sixty. If she weren't a basically good person, what Penelope did to her would have made her an evil, bitter hag."

"But …." Elminster started.

"Leave it be, Old Mage," I said. "Imoen's right. She's not a child, and hasn't been since she was ten years old. If your people had been paying her half the attention they should have, what happened to her wouldn't have happened. But, what's done is done, and can't be undone. So just accept that she's a woman, and let's move on, shall we?"

"Oh, there was never any question of that," Elminster said. "Tis part of why I'm here. Our Lady has choices to offer Imoen – and the two of ye as well. And, I've a message for ye, from another."

"Mystra has choices to offer me?" Imoen asked, while roughly wiping tears from her cheeks. "What do you mean?"

"A message for me?" I asked, surprised.

"Aye," Elminster said. He looked at Lada and said, "And ye, I believe, are a part of what is to come, lass, so any decision made should take thy desires into account as well."

"Oh," Lada said softly, "I'll do whatever they want. I'm just grateful to be with them."

"Oh," Elminster chuckled. "Now I understand why I was given a message for ye, as well. Normally, I try to avoid carrying messages for Gods, but the three of ye have the attention of three different Gods." He looked at Imoen and added, "Although, in thy case, the attention is far more than that of Our Lady. Ye are the only remaining child of Bhaal, lass, and so ye have the attention of many Gods, all of whom wish to know what ye intend to do with thy power and position."

"I don't want to be a God," Imoen said. "I just want to be with Fred and Lada. I love them. I want to stay with them."

"Ye'll be happy to know, that will make many people sleep more easily, lass," Elminster said. "To stay with them, though, ye'll have to give up that taint of thy father."

"Gladly!" Imoen said, almost shouting. "I never wanted it in the first place!"

"Easy, lass," Elminster said. "I'm not thy enemy. I'm merely an old man who's seen too much and done too much, and stepped on too many toes," he chuckled ruefully, "including thine, it would seem."

"I'm sorry, Elminster," Imoen said. "I just … after learning what the rulers of this place consider a child, I was too sensitive."

"No need to worry, lass," Elminster said. "Thy friends clearly understand the reason, and stand by ye as true friends should."

"I love her," I said. "It's as simple as that. I love her as I love Lada."

"She's one of us," Lada said. "I would be sad without her."

I pulled Lada's wheelchair out from under the living room computer desk, turned it around so it was facing into the room, and sat in it. Imoen and Lada returned to their places on the sofa, and Elminster sat in the recliner. I pointed to the top of the entertainment center, where one of my ash trays was sitting. Elminster nodded and summoned it to his hand, then tapped his pipe over it before speaking.

"I will start with the message from Our Lady," Elminster said. "Imoen, it is safe for ye to return home. With thy brothers and sisters all dead, and the last of Bhaal's power removed from the Realms, the only enemies ye have are the ones any person of good will has. Thy taint can be removed from ye as ye pass from this world to our own, and ye'll never notice the removal."

"And if I choose to remain here?" Imoen asked.

"Then, thy taint will be with ye for the rest of thy life," Elminster said, "and ye'll find ye'll only be able to use what magic ye can wrest from this world, with the sweat and tears of thine own research. Our Lady is not of this world, and so She cannot affect the Weave of this world, such as it is."

"Such as it is?" I asked. "So, my suspicion that the mana level of this world is far lower than that of Toril is correct?"

"Aye, lad, it is," Elminster said. "Ye'll find that yer places of greatest mana, such as yer Giza, Avebury, and such, are but a fraction of the mana even an ordinary farm has in Faerun."

"So," Imoen said softly, "I'll never be able to learn the great magics, like you or Khelben?"

"Not on this world, lass," Elminster said. "And I'm sure ye've already learned that yer talent for finding things others don't want found is not as welcome on this world as it is back home."

"Other than the slavery," Imoen said softly, "the rulers of this nation remind me of what I've heard about Zhentil Keep."

"Oh, we have slavery, too," I muttered. "We just dress it up as military service and prison employment opportunities."

"In other words," Elminster said, "the only thieves they allow are the ones that work for them. So, if ye want to ply yer old trade, ye'll have to find a way to convince them to hire ye."

"I think I'll pass," Imoen said. "But, if I can't do magic, and I can't do thievery, what _can_ I do?"

"That, lass, is why I was sent," Elminster said. "And, why I was sent with messages for those ye love, as well as yerself." He looked at me. "For ye, lad, a message from Kelemvor. While he appreciates the devotion ye offer him, he, like Mystra, has no place in this world. Yer devotion would mark ye as one of his priests, were ye in our world, but does little for ye in this world."

"So, it's about as effective as worshiping one of the Gods that belongs to this world, then?" I asked.

"We don't know," Elminster admitted. "No one – not human nor God – has been able to find any of the Gods of this world, so ye may be right, but they may merely be too well-hidden for any to find them."

"Or, for all we know, the lack of magic may prevent any meaningful traffic between the mortal and divine realms," I suggested.

"Aye," Elminster agreed, nodding slowly. "In any case, yer devotion to Kelemvor marks ye as an eccentric in this world, at best, while it marks ye as a faithful servant in our own." He looked at Lada and said, "As for ye, lass, Ilmater has seen yer ways, and counts ye as one of his."

"Umm …," Lada asked, clearly uncertain, "who is Ilmater?"

"Ilmater?" Imoen asked, surprised. "Ilmater is impressed by you? Wow!"

"Ilmater is best-known as the god of healing," I said. "He takes on all kinds of pain, both physical and mental, to ease the suffering of mortals. And he doesn't care who the mortals are, or what they've done. If they are in pain, they can turn to him for help."

"Aye," Elminster said, "the lad has the right of it. Ilmater takes on the pains of the world, and his servants act as his hands, healing, tending to the sick and sick-hearted, making medicines, defending the poor and defenseless, accepting all manner of things for the sake of their charges. Of course, they can also be some of the most ruthless of warriors, when those they protect are harmed. The Monks of the Yellow Rose are servants of Ilmater, and a more dedicated order you're not likely to find."

"And when he says 'monks'," I said, "think Brother Murphy, not St. Francis."

"So, like D&D monks, then?" Lada asked.

"Aye, lass," Elminster chuckled. "Like the monks in that silly game. The message I have, for all three of ye, is that ye're welcome in our world, and places are available for each of ye."

"As long as they're together," I said, "I'm game. But I'll only go if I'm going with both Lada and Imoen."

"I was going to say the same thing," Imoen said. She looked at Lada and said, "Oh, please come with us, Lada? There's so much I want to show you."

"My eyes?" Lada asked, looking from Imoen to me.

"There are spells more powerful than the wish Imoen used," I said. "Your glaucoma could be cured, and you'd never have to deal with those eye drops again."

"But …," Lada started, a look of fear on her face. "I don't know how to see! I've _always_ been blind. You wouldn't make me see, would you?"

"Does it really scare you that much?" Imoen asked, reaching out to take Lada's hand.

"Lada, you don't have an iris, remember?" I said, as gently as I could. "Even without your glaucoma, you're not going to have clear vision without an iris. The best that will happen is you'll never have to worry about your pressure or the pain any more. Besides, remember what that MRI of your brain showed?"

"Lass," Elminster said, "some of the most powerful monks I've known were blind, as the average person counts blindness. They claimed that the lack of sight meant they never had to fear being deceived by illusions."

Lada broke into tears, and Imoen held her in a tight embrace, while crooning softly to her. I moved from the wheelchair to kneel beside the sofa and join Imoen in holding her close.

"Does it really mean that much to you?" Lada asked, when she finally caught her breath.

"I would never leave you," Imoen said. "If you want to stay, I'll stay, too, but I really want to show you how wonderful it is in Faerun."

"We were going to have to move anyway," I said, then laughed softly. "This would solve our problem of where to go."

"But what about all our stuff?" Lada asked. "What would we do with it?"

"I don't know about you," Imoen said, "but I want to take my clothes with me!" She giggled and squeezed Lada cheerfully. "It's the first time ever that I've had clothes that I liked, and weren't just there to make Penny happy."

"Do we get to leave bodies behind?" Lada asked. "A missing persons investigation would hurt a whole lot of people, but everyone who knows us wouldn't be surprised if we died in our sleep."

"Aye, she's one of his, all right," Elminster chuckled. "Yes, lass, we can arrange bodies for those who care about ye to find."

"Hm," I said, considering the suggestion, "we'd better make sure the bodies look as if they died of one of our old medical conditions, then. Otherwise, the investigations into our deaths will keep our families fighting for years. And despite the satisfaction I'd get from inflicting that kind of petty revenge on _my_ family, I'm pretty sure Lada wouldn't want to do that to hers."

"I take it you have suggestions, then?" Elminster asked, giving me a curious look, as if I'd just surprised him.

"I do," I said. "It's pretty clear Lada still has EDS – that's Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome – and so she'd most naturally die from something like an aortic aneurysm. That's where her aorta blows up like a balloon, until it ruptures because it can't blow up any further. It's a fairly common cause of death for people with EDS."

"I see," Elminster said. "And what about you?"

"That's easy," I said. "I used to use a machine to help me breathe while I sleep. All it would take for me would be if I took the wrong mixture of sleeping medications, and then the electricity failed so that the machine was no longer helping me breathe. With the wrong mixture of sleeping medications, I'd sleep right through a power failure, and with the mask on my face, I'd suffocate."

"How can you be so calm about that?" Imoen asked, while hugging both me and Lada. "Dying like that sounds awful!"

"I suppose so," I said, while stroking her hair gently, "but it's better than a whole lot of other ways I can think of that I could have died if you hadn't come along."

"It may be," Elminster said, "but the set-up may just be a bit too coincidental for some suspicious people, if ye catch my meaning. Now, if yer health was as bad as ye suggest, would ye not have suffered a heart attack or stroke upon finding yer lady-love lying dead on the floor?"

"Oh yeah," I said, distracted by the worry that I hadn't managed to banish from Imoen. "In a heartbeat."

"It will be ok," Lada said. "They're just talking about how to best set up the bodies. They're not talking about us, right?"

"I know," Imoen said, "and I know Fred said you were both dying slowly, but you were sick enough for things like that to happen to you?"

"Yes," Lada said. "We were. Until you came along and made your wish." She kissed Imoen and whispered, "And loved us."

"All right, then," Elminster said, "we'll do that. I'd suggest the three of ye gather whatever ye plan to take with ye – do any of ye have bags of holding? – and I'll see what I can do about arranging yer transport and distractions."

"Eh," I said, "None of us have bags of holding. So it's strictly what we can carry with us, ne?"

"Ne, ne," Elminster said, distracted by whatever it was he was doing with a book that hadn't been there a moment before. He stopped, looked up, and considered for a few moments, then snapped out a series of words I didn't understand. Three heavy cloth bags appeared out of nowhere and fell to the floor in front of him. "There ye go. One for each of ye. Try not to damage them, will ye?"

"Definitely," I said. "Thank you." I looked at the shipment from Walmart that we hadn't even had a chance to open yet, and groaned softly.

Elminster, already back to work with his book, just grunted – kind of like, I suspect, the way I grunt when I'm busy writing and someone tries to get my attention. I picked up the bags and joined Lada and Imoen in picking through our stuff to decide what to take with us.


	4. Chapter 4

"I need to find a priest of Gond," I announced, once Lada and Imoen were seated at our table in the Old Skull. "Preferably before I run any lower on ammo."

"Ammo …?" Imoen asked, while Lada rubbed her forehead with one hand.

"Ammunition, sorry," I said. "I only have a couple hundred bullets for my pistols, and that's just not going to be enough to last."

"That's for sure," Imoen said. "I can go through that many bullets with my sling, in just a day or two. And that's assuming I'm primarily using my bow and sword."

"What do you plan to do?" Lada asked.

"I figure I could trade them a chance to copy my loading press, and give them my printouts on the needed components, in exchange for a better supply of ammo," I said. "I could settle for smokepowder if I had to, but I'd rather have powder that's not as hard on the guns."

"You're going to have to learn how to use another weapon," Imoen said. "If that's all the ammunition you have, it's not going to last until we can find one of them."

"Do you have any idea how to find one?" Lada asked. She looked up as one of the waitresses approached the table. "Hi, Dora."

"Hello, Lada," Dora said, laughing. "I will never understand how you recognize me, even though you can't see me, will I?"

"It's your perfume," Lada said. "And the way you walk. I'd just like some cider, if you have any."

"Cider for you," Dora said. "And for the two of you?"

"Whatever Jhaele and Turko have cooked up will be fine for me," I said. "Unless you have a Gondite hidden in your pantry, that is." I started to turn back to Imoen, then remembered I hadn't ordered anything to drink, so I added, "And a pitcher of … do you still have any Glowfire in stock?"

"A Gondite?" Dora asked. "I'm not sure I want to know. I'll check on the Glowfire, at least. Imoen?"

"I'll take the same as Fred," Imoen said. She looked at me with a teasing smile on her face. "So Lada's finally convinced you to try wine, huh?"

"I happen to like wine," I said, crossing my arms and giving Imoen a humph. "It's not my fault that I can't get Spatlese here. So far, Glowfire is as close as I've found." I looked up at Dora and said, "If you're out of Glowfire, why not bring me something that tastes similar?"

"You like the hard requests, don't you?" Dora laughed. "Two dinners with Glowfire and one cider, coming up."

"I don't know what Spatlese is," Imoen said, "but it must be pretty good if you're comparing it to Glowfire." She looked at Lada and said gently, "You've got to eat something, love. You'll make yourself sick if you don't."

"I'm not hungry," Lada said. "But I'll ask Dora if she can get me some bread and cheese to nibble on. OK?"

"Works for me," I said. When Imoen opened her mouth to protest, I shook my head. Imoen closed her mouth, but shot me a look that said we _would_ be talking later.

"Now that we're here," Lada said, "I'm supposed to find a temple of Ilmater, right?"

"Right," I said. "And I'm supposed to find a temple of Kelemvor. Or, if we can't find temples, we should try to find priests who can guide us."

"There's plenty we can do here, though, while we're deciding how to go about looking," Imoen said. "I've been hearing things since we got here yesterday, and there's a lot that we can do, even with the lack of experience you two have."

"That sounds good," I said. "I'll be right back, OK? Why don't you two talk about what you've heard, and decide what we'll be most likely able to help with?"

"Where are you going?" Imoen asked, just a moment before Lada opened her mouth, then shook her head and closed it.

"I need to talk to Jhaele," I said. "She might have some ideas, too." _Among other reasons, but I'm not going to mention those._

"That sounds like a good idea," Lada said. "Imoen? What kinds of things did you hear about?"

"Well," Imoen said, "there's a farmer near town who's losing sheep to something that sounds to me like spiders …."

By the time she got that far, I was half-way across the room, and lost whatever else she said in the general noise of the inn.

"Dora!" I called as I got near the bar.

She looked up and nodded, then called back, teasing, "Too thirsty to wait for me to get back to your table?"

"No," I said, laughing. "Nothing like that. I was going to ask if you've ever heard of a grilled cheese sandwich."

"Grilled cheese what?" Dora asked, putting down the pitcher she was holding. "What's a sandwich?"

"Easy to eat food," I said. "Do you do any of the light food prep, or is it all done in the kitchen?"

"All in the kitchen," Dora said. "Why?"

"Well," I said, "if there aren't any objections, I could show you, and Turko, what I mean. It would be something you could sell to people who don't have time to sit down for a full meal, but still want something to eat."

"Anything that makes Jhaele more profit is a good thing," Dora said, smiling, as she opened the bar to let me through. "Follow me."

I followed Dora into the kitchen, where Jhaele and Turko were discussing something in quiet voices. She crossed the room to them and added her voice to theirs, while gesturing in my direction. After a few moments, Jhaele came toward me.

"You say you have a recipe you'll teach us?" Jhaele asked. "What's your price?"

"Honestly?" I asked, realizing I hadn't considered that question. "I hadn't thought about it. Why not just give us a percentage discount while we're here? Whatever percent you think the recipe is worth."

"You hadn't thought about it," Jhaele said, an eyebrow approaching her hairline. "You … hadn't … thought … about it." She broke into laughter and draped an arm over my shoulder. "You, lad, need to learn to adopt a slightly more mercenary attitude, if you want to get by in the world. A percentage discount it is, then. Now, come over here and show us what this recipe involves."

Jhaele led me across the kitchen, still chuckling, her arm still draped over my shoulder. We stopped by Turko and Dora, who were watching with open curiosity.

Jhaele snorted at their expressions. "He's a cute kid. Needs some seasoning, but I daresay his ladies will take care of that problem. Now, let's see what you've got to show us."

"All right," I said. I was still getting used to that 'kid' label. Since Lada and I had chosen to have our new, healthy bodies aged just enough to match Imoen's age, we were both somewhat – or in my case, quite a lot – younger than we had been. Going from nearly 50 to 16 is a major shift in perception, even if you're in a world where 16 is old enough to have the responsibilities and freedoms of an adult.

I looked around the kitchen to see what was available to work with. A nice big grill for frying on, kept hot with good hard wood, all the knives I could want, and hopefully the food supplies I needed, although they weren't obviously available.

"First," I said, "I'm going to need bread, cut in slices a half inch thick. That's the perfect thickness for sandwiches."

Dora disappeared through a nearby door, then stuck her head back out and called, "Do you need anything else from the pantry?"

"I need butter, whatever kind of cheese you use for melting into hot dishes, and tomatoes," I called back.

"I don't know what a tomato is," Dora said, "but I can get the other stuff."

"Hmm," I mused. "Yeah. A tomato is probably from Maztica. That would make it outrageously rare and expensive, unless there's an Aurora's outlet nearby."

Turko looked me over, obviously trying to figure me out. I silently wished him good luck on that job. Dora returned with a loaf of bread, a wheel of cheese, and about a pound of butter – the cultured kind, it looked like. That should make the sandwiches better than usual.

"Thank you," I said, as Dora put the supplies on a counter. I looked at Turko and asked, "Do you mind if I use a couple of your knives?"

"Go ahead," Turko said, a surprised – and pleased – look on his face.

I looked through the collection, picked out a bread knife and a long, thin knife that was probably intended for filleting things, but would work perfectly for slicing cheese, and began work.

"First," I said, as I cut a dozen slices of bread, "you slice the bread, as close to a half inch thick as you can. Any thicker, and it doesn't fry up right. Any thinner, and it tends to fall apart while you're frying it."

I set the bread slices aside and sliced the cheese, as thin as I could manage with the knife I was using.

"The cheese should be about as thick as a dagger's blade," I said. "Too thick, and it won't melt properly. Too thin, and you won't get enough cheese."

I found a butter spreader and began buttering the slices of bread. Once they were all buttered, I put the cheese between slices, with the buttered sides facing out. With the sandwiches assembled, I put them on the grill, and stood watch over them while they fried.

"You can put just about anything between slices of bread to make a sandwich," I said. "I'm fond of bacon and cheese, or ham and cheese. Mutton makes a good sandwich, too, if you slice it while it's still hot, and smear it with freshly grated horseradish." I flipped the sandwiches, and continued talking. "And, if you take a mini loaf of bread, say, about six inches long and maybe two inches wide, and cut a slit in the top, you can put a sausage into the slit and have a sausage sandwich to eat on the road. I love those sausage sandwiches with sauerkraut and mustard on them." I checked one of the sandwiches and nodded. The bread was just the right color and crispness. I took the sandwiches off the grill and put them on a serving plate. "Here you go. Give them a taste and tell me what you think."

All three of them took a sandwich and bit into it. Dora looked surprised, then smiled, as she chewed hers. Turko was obviously analyzing his sandwich as he ate it, but was clearly pleased with the experience. Jhaele's face was completely neutral as she ate. I figured she must be an experienced poker player.

"These are grilled sandwiches," I said when they were finished. "You don't have to grill a sandwich to make it good, but my guess is that grilled sandwiches are going to be more popular than cold ones."

"So," Jhaele said, "this is your recipe, is it?"

"Yup," I said. "That pretty much covers it."

"Five percent," Jhaele said.

"Throw in free sandwiches as long as we're here, and you've got a deal," I said. I wasn't going to try to compete with her in haggling, but I knew I was expected to do at least _some_. I figured free sandwiches would satisfy both of us.

"Then we have a deal," Jhaele said, extending her hand. I took it and we shook. Only after the deal was concluded, did Jhaele smile. "You really do not know how to bargain, do you?"

"Nope," I said. "Never learned how growing up, and never had much opportunity to learn it after I left home. Where I come from, prices are fixed. No haggling allowed, unless you're buying something big, like a house."

"How are you supposed to know how to haggle over a house, if you've never had the chance to learn on small things?" Jhaele asked.

"Heck if I know," I said, shrugging. "It never made much sense to me, either. So, I take it you like the concept?"

"Are you kidding?" Jhaele asked. "I can use this to use up all sorts of things that are too good for stew, but not good enough for the table. Keep coming back, and you'll see a lot of sandwiches on the menu. And your idea for serving sausages? That's going to make our local drovers very happy."

"Excellent," I said, smiling at her happily. "Remember I said I hadn't thought about what to charge for the recipe? The reason I came to you with it is that I needed something to convince Lada to eat, and she absolutely loves this kind of sandwich. Dora, if you can take the rest of these out to her, and tell her that I suggested you bring her out a plate of bread and cheese – but _don't_ tell her that it's sandwiches – I guarantee you'll see an interesting response."

"Now this is a man who loves his woman," Jhaele chuckled. "I'm going to want to see this response myself."

With that, Dora picked up the plate with the remaining sandwiches on it, and led the way out to the taproom, with me behind her and Jhaele bringing up the rear. When she got to our table, Imoen and Lada both looked up. I held a finger to my lips as I slid into my seat, so Imoen kept quiet, but looked at me curiously. I just smiled at her, having trouble holding in my glee at being able to surprise Lada.

"Here you go," Dora said as she put the plate in front of Lada. "Fred said you might want some bread and cheese."

Lada reached out to the plate, felt around on it for a moment, then picked up a sandwich. As she did, her face lit up with surprise and happiness and she gasped, "Grilled cheese! Oh, you love me!" She reached across the table with her free hand, which I took and kissed.

"I thought you might like a little bread and cheese," I deadpanned, then snorted as the laughter became too much to hold in. "Yes, I love you. Do you like it?"

"This is delicious!" Lada said around a mouthful of sandwich. "I've never tasted cheese like this before. And is that cultured butter on it?"

"I think so," I said. I looked up at Jhaele and smiled. "Jhaele seems to have approved, too, so we worked out a suitable price for it." Then I leaned over and stage-whispered, "Next time I need to make a deal, I'll sell her the recipe for noodles."

"Noodles?" Jhaele asked, her curiosity piqued.

"It's a food from Kara Tur," I said. "It's as common there as bread is here."

"You," Jhaele chuckled, "are a very naughty lad, dangling exotic recipes in front of me like that. We're going to have to talk. Very soon. But not when you're waiting on your dinner." She turned and walked back to the bar, chuckling as she went. On her way, some of the others in the room delayed her with talk, most of them looking our way as they did. In most cases, they ended up laughing with her as she continued on her way.

"You are in such trouble," Imoen teased, laughing. "Why didn't you tell me you had planned something like this?"

"Because if I did, Lada would have heard it?" I asked, looking at her innocently. "So what kind of jobs did the two of you work out as suitable for us?"

"You and I are going to go check out the spider situation tomorrow," Imoen said. "If you don't mind, that is. Lada wants to see if there is a weaver in town who might be interested in giving her a chance to do some work."

"I don't mind," I said. "You think the spider job will take us all day?"

"Not likely," Imoen said, "but finding it probably will. Hopefully, we'll make enough off it to buy you a sword."

"That would be good," I said. "The sooner we start earning our keep, the sooner we can get to the business of finding our teachers."

"And the sooner I can stop worrying about how long we have before my coins run out," Imoen said. "I'm just glad I was the one carrying all the coinage Penny and I picked up in Irenicus' complex."

"Would it make sense for me to use one of your spare swords?" I asked. "Until I can buy one of my own, that is."

"You have a good point," Imoen said. "If you're going to rely on your pistol, a shortsword should be enough of a backup weapon, and I do have a couple that smell of magic, in addition to the one I kept for myself."

"You can smell magic?" Lada asked, confused.

"Not literally," Imoen said, smiling as she reached out to touch Lada's cheek. "It's just a figure of speech, love."

Dora returned to our table, carrying a mug of cider for Lada, and a pitcher and two mugs for Imoen and me. She put it down and smiled, without saying anything, as she headed back the way she had come, swaying her hips just a bit more than was necessary as she walked.

"Let's see what she gave us," Imoen said, picking up the pitcher and pouring. "It's obviously not Glowfire, or she would have said so."

The liquid that poured from the pitcher was dark, almost black, and sparkled, like a champagne. Imoen pushed a mug toward me, once she'd filled both. I picked it up and smelled the aroma of honey and blackberries, in about equal amounts. When I sipped it, I was pleasantly surprised. It was obviously a blackberry melomel, but it wasn't heavy or cloying. In fact, it was positively effervescent. Imoen and I looked at each other over our mugs, both of us obviously surprised.

"This is good!" I said, finally breaking the silence.

"What is?" Lada asked, putting down her sandwich as she spoke.

"Dora brought us a blackberry melomel," I said.

"And it is delicious," Imoen said.

"Can I taste it?" Lada asked. Imoen and I both pushed our mugs toward her. When we noticed what the other was doing, we both laughed. Meanwhile, Lada picked up one of the mugs and took a sip, then put it down carefully. "Wow. That _is_ good. I might even order that instead of cider tomorrow."

"I don't blame you," Imoen said. "I'm used to cheap and harsher liquors. This is something I'd drink just for the taste."

"Same here," I said. "Unless they have beer this good, I'm going to be sticking to this."

"What about tea?" Lada asked.

"We can ask Dora," I said, "but I think it's like Europe and Asia. They use alcohol here, and tea in Kara Tur."

"What are you talking about?" Imoen asked.

"Back on Earth," Lada said, "until they learned how to purify it, different cultures made water safe to drink in different ways."

"In Europe," I said, "they made beer and wine, and in some areas they distilled the beer and wine into whisky and brandy. When they had to drink water, they'd mix it with the beer or wine, in order to make it safe to drink."

"And in Asia," Lada said, "they made tea by boiling water and steeping the leaves of different plants in it, so that it was not only safe to drink, but had different medicinal qualities."

"And then there's Africa," I said, grinning. "That's where coffee came from."

"Coffee?" Imoen asked, a faint whimper in her voice. "Why did you have to introduce me to coffee?"

"Because I didn't expect we'd be coming here so soon, if at all?" I said, reaching out to take her hand. "I'm sorry, love. I didn't expect we'd be deprived of coffee so abruptly."

"I know," Imoen said, pouting. "But I want some anyway."

"I have a bag of beans in my bag," I said. "If we're careful, we can make it last at least a month."

"We just have to not drink it every day," Imoen said. "Not if we want to have good coffee."

"That's right," I said. "If we try to drink it every day, and still make it last a full month, it'll just taste nasty because we won't use enough to make a good cup."

"Yeah," Lada said. "And you'll have the headaches anyway, so it's not worth it."

"So, what do you think?" Dora asked, as she put plates down in front of Imoen and me. The plates had roasted vegetables and what smelled like mutton on them.

"This is delicious," I said, hoisting my mug. "Do you make it yourselves, or buy it locally?"

"We make it right here," Dora said, smiling proudly. "You really like it?"

"I'd rather have this than any beer I've tasted," I said, "and almost any wine, for that matter. Do you have the straight mead, or only the fruit blend?"

"We have several fruit blends," Dora said. "Blackberry, apple, cherry, currant, and blueberry are the ones we're pretty sure are ready to offer in the taproom. We have a straight mead, too, which everyone says is the best in the Dales, but the fruit blends are what we're proudest of."

"You should be," Imoen said. "This is the best wine, of any kind, I've ever had."

"I agree," Lada said. "That's even better than your cider, and I really like cider."

"I'll be sure to pass that on to Jhaele and Durgo," Dora said.

"Before I get too distracted," I said, "I'd like to ask you something a bit more down to earth."

"Sure," Dora said. "What do you need?"

"Can you tell me where the village hides its graveyard?" I asked. "I noticed it's almost sunset, and I'd like to make sure I can get in my prayers without offending anyone."

"You …," Dora looked at me curiously. "You're a follower of Kelemvor, I hope?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," I said. "As far as I know, you don't have a priest here, but that shouldn't stop me from praying, right?"

"Oh, no!" Dora said, a look of relief on her face. "If you worship Kelemvor, you're welcome here." She smiled, wistfully. "I remember seeing him when he was here."

"And you were, what, 10?" I asked, grinning teasingly at her.

"I was 12!" Dora shot back, then blushed, before adding, "He was strong, and handsome, and brave, and every one of my friends thought he was, too."

"Uh-oh," Imoen said, reaching across the table to gently poke me in the side. "Looks like you've gone and distracted her."

"Yeah," I said, chuckling. "Too bad Velsharoonies aren't so easy to distract, eh?"

"Velsha …," Imoen broke into laughter. "Are you _trying_ to stir up fights with followers of evil Gods?"

"Na," I said, laughing with her. " _They_ do that, every time they animate some poor sod who just wanted to rest in peace."

"Rest in peace?" Dora asked, her attention back on us. "Who? What?"

"Just talking about what Cyricists and Velsharoonies should do," I said, chuckling as my laughter ran down.

"Oh dear," Lada groaned. "Now he's on a rant, and you'll never get him to stop."

"Who?" I asked, doing my best to look innocent. "Me?"

"Yes, you," Imoen laughed. "Now eat your dinner and let poor Dora get back to doing what she gets paid for."

"I'd sure like to see those damned Zhents get planted where they belong," Dora grumbled. "Everyone here lost someone to them, the last time they invaded." She looked at me and said, "If you want to pay your respects, just follow the road toward the Tower of Ashaba, and look to the south when you reach Hangman's Knoll. It's not much of a graveyard, but that's because most families bury their own, and those who don't are buried by the temple they belong to. We haven't had a proper priest of Kelemvor here yet, so we don't have a graveyard to match the village."

"Thank you," I said, giving Dora a nod of respect. "If you're willing, I'd like to hear the stories of those who are buried there, after I return this evening. And if you spread the word to anyone else who'd like to tell their stories, I'll be happy to hear them, as well."

Dora squeaked, blushed, and then bent down to give me a quick hug before running off to return to her work. I didn't really know what to do, so I returned the hug, and when she had left, I looked at Lada and Imoen and asked softly, "Did I do OK?"

"It sounded like you made her happy," Lada said.

"It looked like it, too," Imoen said. "So I guess the answer is yes."

"Thank goodness," I said, then started in on my meal. "So, as soon as I'm done eating, I'm going to the graveyard for a bit. I'll be back as soon as I'm done, OK?"

"OK," Lada said. "Don't forget to take a sword with you. Please? I don't think most people will recognize your pistols."

"I don't think they will, either," Imoen said. "Lada's right. Even here, it'd be best if you took a sword with you."

"All right," I said, between bites of food. "I agree with you both. I don't want anyone thinking I'm unarmed."


	5. Chapter 5

"Thanks for the escort," I said to the guard who had walked back to the Old Skull with me from the graveyard. "I appreciate the thought, even if it does seem safe within the village."

"Oh, it wasn't for your sake that I escorted you," he chuckled. "Lord Mourngrym likes to know about any new adventurers in the Dale."

"Especially after the mess with the Zhents a few years ago?" I asked.

"Especially after that, yes," he answered. As we stopped in front of the entrance to the inn, he extended a hand. "Mayheir Hawksguard. If you need anything, most anyone will know where to find me."

"Will do," I said, taking his hand and shaking it. "My name is Fred. Fred MacManus. If you happen across any priests of Ilmater or Kelemvor, I'd greatly appreciate it if you sent them my way. Until then, my ladies and I plan to do what we can to make ourselves useful around here."

"There's always work," Mayheir said, "for people of good will. The fact that Elminster brought you here vouches for your good intent."

"Thank you," I said. "And if you have anyone who's willing to teach complete noobs which end of a sword to hold, I'll happily pay for the training. Once I've managed to earn enough to pay, that is."

"Oh, we can always take it out in trade," Mayheir chuckled. "I have a stack of jobs back at the Tower that are suitable for freelancers, including quite a few that are suitable for … how did you put it … complete noobs?"

"Wonderful," I said. "We'll stop by then, once we finish the job Imoen rounded up for us tomorrow. Something about a farmer whose sheep are being eaten by spiders." When he looked as if he were going to protest, I added, "Don't worry. She has more experience than both myself and Lada combined, and is convinced she can babysit me through the job. If I can't shoot them, she can fireball them into submission. I hope."

Mayheir laughed out loud at that. "At least you're not totally overconfident. Just a little of it."

We laughed together at that, clapped each other on the shoulder, and then Mayheir headed back toward the Tower while I opened the door to the inn.

As I walked into the taproom, Dora came up to me and took my arm as she spoke. "Everyone here wants to tell you their stories. Imoen and Lada are over here." She guided me to a chair that was set against the wall at one end of the room, closest to the bar. Lada and Imoen were sitting at a nearby table, Imoen chuckling at my obvious discomfort at being the center of attention, and Lada blushing and trying to hide behind Imoen.

"Everyone!" Dora said. "This is Fred, the man I was telling you about. He just came back from praying at the Hangman's Knoll graveyard, and he's ready to hear your stories. Please, just make it one at a time, all right?"

"Before anyone starts," I asked, "would you allow me to get something to write on, so that I can make sure your stories aren't lost to my horrendously bad memory? I'm afraid I wasn't expecting such a quick response to my offer, so I left my writing tools in my room."

There was a wave of laughter through the room, and someone called out, "Go on, then! At least now we know you're a real person, and not some mystical avatar." More laughter followed that call, as I headed upstairs to grab a bundle of steno pads and a box of pens.

"You know," the stranger said, as I was handing Imoen my last steno pad and pen, "I had some concerns when the waitress said someone was going to be hearing stories of this town's dead. But you took them in as I would expect a true servant of Kelemvor to do."

I looked up and rubbed my eyes. It had been a long evening, my hand was cramping from all the writing I'd done, and my vision was blurry with fatigue. Lada was over in the corner, talking quietly with a young woman who'd broken down while telling the story of her father's death during the Zhent invasion, and Imoen was at the table, watching the stranger while she added the last notebook to the stack. The stranger was wearing smoky blue robes, with a matching cowled cloak and a pendant holy symbol of Kelemvor, with the scales colored silver. I pinched the bridge of my nose and looked again. Yes, he was still there.

"You look surprised to see me," he said, chuckling softly. "My companions and I arrived about mid-way through the notebook you filled before this last one." He gestured toward Lada, who was now accompanied by an older woman, who looked as if she were waiting for Lada to finish helping the younger woman before saying anything. Then he gestured toward an elf and a half-orc, who were studying what looked, from across the room, like a map. "We were brought here by our Gods – for what reason, we did not know until now."

"Thank the Gods," I groaned, while massaging my writing hand. "I don't have the slightest clue what I'm doing. I've just been trying to do what felt like the right thing."

"Which is exactly what you should have been doing," the stranger said. He extended his hand, and took my writing hand in it, while chanting briefly. My hand glowed for a moment, and the pain vanished. That done, he smiled, shook my hand, and said, "I'm pleased to meet you. My name is Ander Brightwood, and, as you might have guessed, I'm a doomguide."

"I hope being diverted here didn't distract you from some more urgent mission," I said, feeling the fatigue settle into my bones. I hadn't realized just how long the day had been, until the stories stopped coming. "Oh, yeah, my name is Fred MacManus."

"No, no," Ander said, "coming here was no diversion." He chuckled. "In fact, my companions thought we might take advantage of being here to investigate interesting rumors they had heard, so you could say that you and your Ilmatari friend gave us a reason to be where they wanted to visit anyway."

"Lada?" I asked, glancing toward Lada. "She's not just my friend, she's my wife." I looked at Imoen and smiled tiredly at her. "And Imoen is my – make that our – sweetheart."

Imoen returned my smile and reached out to rest a hand on my shoulder. "Fred, love, you're barely sitting up, and I'd guess it's maybe four hours before sunrise. How can you expect to do your morning prayers if you're too tired to open your eyes?"

"I had to hear all the stories, love, you know that," I said, too tired to make sense, even to myself. Imoen stood, walked over to my side, and wrapped her arms around me.

"I know, love," Imoen said. "And you can transfer them to scrolls, once we have the money to buy them. Until then, you need to learn to pace yourself, all right?"

"Yes, dear," I said, leaning against her. I looked at Ander and said, weakly, "I'm sorry. Do you think we can talk tomorrow?"

"Of course," Ander said, chuckling warmly. "I'll be by to wake you for morning prayers. Now, since your wife and Kara Sergeinichna seem to have done what they could for that young lady, you should probably gather up your wife while I speak with Kara, and go get some of that sleep you so obviously need."

"Fred," Imoen whispered. "Don't move."

I froze in place, moving only my eyes as I scanned what I could see in front of me, to try to understand why she had told me to freeze. Shit. The ground was covered with a network of white ropes, some of which glistened as if coated with something wet. And, no doubt, very, very sticky.

"Now," she whispered, while nocking an arrow, "when I tell you to, drop to the ground. Ready?" She snapped her bow up, drew, and fired it, while snapping out, "Now!"

I dropped. I felt the arrow pass over me, close enough that I could hear the noise it made as it flew. Then I heard the most ungodly screaming sound I had ever heard. I rolled over, drawing my revolver, and saw a spider, the size of a pony, with an arrow embedded in it, right between its eight eyes. It crouched, as if to jump, and I aimed for where I expected it to pass over me if it did. Then it twitched and fell, its legs spasming for a few seconds before it went still.

"Correct me if I'm wrong," I said, as I got to my feet, "but we're not even at the farm yet, right?"

"Right," Imoen said. "From what I was told, it's another twenty minutes or so down the trail."

"Weird," I muttered, as I holstered my revolver. "I thought the Spiderhaunt Woods was down the road to the west, not down this trail."

"It is," she said. "I got lots of warnings to not go that direction without a full caravan. People say the spiders are attacking as far east as the road to Daggerdale."

"So this must be an isolated infestation, then?" I suggested, as we started down the trail again, watching carefully where we put our feet.

"Must be," she said. "Here's hoping it's not a large one."

"I'll drink to that," I muttered.

"Careful," Imoen teased. "If you keep saying that, you're going to get a reputation like Elminster's."

"Could be worse," I said. "It could be a reputation like Volo's."

"Oh, don't remind me!" she laughed. "We ran into him in Nashkel. Can you believe, he actually made a pass at Penny?"

"So, was he drunk," I asked, "or just totally lacking in taste?"

"Both," she said.

We both laughed. I was especially happy to hear her speaking out like that. It helped that we started the last part of our walk with a lighter mood: it made the rest of the trip a lot easier.

When we arrived at the farm, it wasn't hard to tell. Imoen and I stopped at the edge of the meadow and looked across at the house and barn. Nothing was moving, in the yard, in the fields, or around the buildings. There was a wagon parked by the barn, so we should have seen a horse, at the very least.

"I've got a bad feeling about this," Imoen muttered, nocking an arrow.

"Same here, Chewie," I muttered, while drawing both my M1911A1s. I figured the revolver was good as backup for the sword, but if I was going to shoot things, I wanted what I was happiest with.

"Chewie?" she asked, glancing at me.

"Chewbacca," I said. "Movie reference. I'll explain later."

We crept toward the house, scanning to the front and the sides as we went. As we got closer, we could see that the buildings were covered with webbing, as was the wagon, the well, and pretty much everything else within fifty feet of the house. About the same time, we came across our first sheep. It was intact, except for two holes in its back, big enough to put a fist into, and the complete lack of soft tissues inside its skin.

"OK," I whispered, "so we're dealing with a spider that liquifies its prey and drinks the liquid. That helps some."

"How?" Imoen demanded, also at a whisper.

"It means the spiders we're hunting don't have biting parts," I said. "All they have is fangs. As long as one doesn't sink its fangs into you, you're safe."

"And if it does, you're dead," she said. "So use those antidotes I got as soon as you get bit. Don't wait for something to happen. Got it?"

"Trust me, love," I said, "there is no way I'm going to wait for this kind of venom to take hold. I promise, I will take an antidote if I so much as get scratched by spider fangs."

"Good!" Imoen said, grabbed me, kissed me hungrily, and growled, "I would be very, very unhappy if you died here. And so would Lada."

"Not to mention how disappointed I'd be," I said, smiling at her. "I promise, I will do everything in my power to come out of this alive, as long as you do the same."

"It's a deal," she said, gave me a quick peck on the lips, and jerked her head toward the house. "We should start there, I think. If anyone's still alive, they'll be in the house. If they're not, we can just set it on fire and hope the blaze spreads to the barn. My guess is the spiders have turned the barn into a nest."

"Sounds good to me," I said. "You think there'll be a door on the side away from the barn?"

"I hope so," she said. "If not, you'll have to use those noisemakers of yours to make us one."

"These aren't dynamite!" I protested, laughing. "Of course, it's times like this that I wish I had some. I'll have to see if I can sell that recipe to the Gondites, too."

"What did you do?" Imoen teased, "Fill your bag with recipes?"

"Well," I said, "I didn't exactly _fill_ it..."

That's when we saw the first of the spiders. It was big. Really damned big. I'm talking as big as a wagon, at the very least. It made the spider Imoen had killed in the woods look like a kitten next to it. Not only was it big, it was … different. It was black, with brown stripes on its body, in a pattern I did not recognize from any photos I'd ever seen. The way it stalked, it looked like it was a hunting spider, rather than a webspinner, which explained why the only webs we'd seen were over the buildings, like they'd been turned into nests.

"Think you can hit it from here?" Imoen asked, while slowly drawing her bow.

"Let's see," I muttered. The wagon was a known size, so my guess was that we were between fifty and sixty yards away. Not exactly prime range for a .45, but doable, if I took careful aim. It had been a long time, but I remembered the rules, and knew that if I trusted my instincts, I'd be able to do it. "Sure. Just tell me when."

We both took aim, and when I nodded, Imoen whispered, "Now."

We fired in unison. The bark of my left-hand pistol reached the spider just an instant before our projectiles, causing it to jump, right into their path. It began to run toward us, a lurching gait caused by two of its right legs dangling uselessly. I began firing with both pistols, while Imoen began filling it with arrrows. Bits of its body began spraying off in chunks, where I had only grazed it with my shots, and arrows stuck out of it like spines from a hedgehog. I reloaded my left pistol once, and my right pistol had just locked back when it finally fell and slid to a stop, about ten feet from us.

"Oh, shit," Imoen hissed, once the big spider's body was no longer blocking our view of the house.

Coming out of the barn, and climbing over the house, were at least another dozen spiders. None of them were as big as this one, but they were all at least as big as the one Imoen had killed in the woods. I slid a fresh magazine into my right pistol, released the slide, and nodded to Imoen, while stepping carefully around the legs of the dead spider.

"Go ahead and retrieve as many arrows as you can," I said, while taking aim on the closest spider. "I'll cover you."

"Don't forget to use your antidotes if you get bit," Imoen said. She really sounded worried. While she was pulling arrows out of the spider, she muttered, distracted, "I really hate sword spiders."

The spider I was aiming at suddenly let out a shriek, and began running toward us. I fired, hitting it in the middle of its eye cluster. It dropped, all eight legs spasming like electric shocks were running through them. Meanwhile, a second spider, with the same black and brown pattern as the big one, leaped at us. While it was in the air, it drew its legs together, as if it planned to spear one of us with them. I fired both pistols into it, feeling the calmness I had always associated with shooting come over me.

Suddenly, everything seemed to slow down and grow sharp and clear. I could see the bullets hit the spider that had jumped, and knew that I was pulling with my right pistol, while my left one was hesitating just a tick, as if it needed a burr polished off its hammer. Both were things I could easily adjust for, now that the calm was on me. I fired another shot into the falling spider, hitting it just ahead of the center of its leg cluster, the impact knocking it off-course enough to land on the ground, dead, beside Imoen, rather than on top of her.

Without waiting for it to land, I switched targets, choosing one that looked like a horse-sized black widow. I put two shots into its bloated abdomen, then, when it reared up, followed up with a shot that hit it right between the fangs, ripping open its head and spilling its venom onto the ground. I moved on to my next target, a brown recluse, and fed it four doses of vitamin Pb before moving on.

Everything was moving so slowly that I was able to see the impact of the bullets on the spiders, gauge their effectiveness, and decide whether to shoot that spider again, while the spiders were still reacting to the noise and flashes. I had never realized before, just how sensitive spiders are to light and sound, but these spiders were definitely reacting as if both were painful. I reloaded both pistols twice, shot until both slides locked back, magazines empty, after the second reload. I released the slides and tucked the pistols back into their holsters in my vest, then drew my revolver with my left hand, and the sword Imoen had given me with my right.

"You don't have to cover me any more," Imoen said, as she stepped up beside me with her bow in hand. "Thanks, though."

I felt the calm dropping from me, and looked around, surprised, as I saw the dead spiders scattered all around us. Not one had gotten close enough to bite. Imoen was scanning the buildings, squinting against the noonday sun, with an arrow nocked and half drawn. I checked my fanny pack. The antidotes were still safely in it, all unused, as well as a half-dozen moon clips for my revolver. If we needed to shoot anything, I just had to hope that was enough.

"Time to check out the house," Imoen said. "Think you can tell me how you did all this, while we're doing that?"

"I can try," I said, "but I'm not sure how much sense it will make." We started toward the house, our alertness ratcheted up so it felt as if the air was making us twitch, and I continued. "Ever since I was issued my first weapon, in basic training, I've had this … connection, I guess you could say. Give me a rifle or a pistol, and I can reach out and touch my target, as if it's standing right next to me. In basic, for qualification, they gave us 100 bullets and a target that we were supposed to hit at least sixty times, from 100 yards away. They gave us some incredibly long time to hit it – three or four minutes, if I remember right." I stopped and pointed at the farm's horse, laying dead and dessicated on the ground, maybe twenty feet from the house. Imoen nodded, frowning, and then nodded at the house. We kept walking, and I started talking again. "So, they gave us our 100 bullets in twenty-shot magazines. And they gave us an extra fifty bullets to use for sighting in our rifles, before we shot for our score. Well, once I got my rifle sighted in, this feeling came over me, like the world was moving in slow motion, and everything was calm and cool. The range boss gave us the order to fire, and I picked up my rifle, put in the first magazine, and began to reach out and touch my target. It felt to me like I was taking forever to choose where I'd put the bullet, then squeeze the trigger and send it downrange. Apparently, that wasn't the case. When I finished shooting all of my bullets, I safed my rifle, put it down, and then stepped back from it. The range boss came over to me and asked if my gun had gotten stuck on automatic. I didn't know what he was talking about. I'd taken so long to fire it, I was sure he couldn't be talking to me. That's when I noticed that everyone else was still shooting, and I'd only used about a third of the time they had allotted us to fire for our scores."

Imoen stopped by a window and lowered her bow, held it in one hand while she drew her sword and gently pushed open the shutters with its point, and stood to one side, in case anything came out. I held my revolver at the ready, in case I needed to shoot. After a few moments, we both relaxed and looked in the window. The family was in there, scattered around the room, dead. Imoen pointed at one of the adult bodies, and I saw what she had noticed: the body was bloated, as if it hadn't been consumed the way the others had. The only explanation I could think of was enough that I glanced around the room, looking for any oil lamps or containers of oil that might be visible.

"There's a lamp over the fireplace," Imoen said, while wrapping a rag around the head of one of her arrows. "Do you have your lighter with you?"

"I do," I said, while digging it out of my fanny pack. "You want me to break the lamp?"

"Exactly," she said. "I'll light it, once you've broken it."

Imoen lit the rag on her arrow, and watched it for a few moments, until the fire had taken hold. While she was doing that, I took aim on the lamp, and waited for her signal. She whispered, "Now," and I fired. My bullet hit the lamp and shattered it, spraying oil in a splash that hit the wall behind the mantle, then bounced back and covered about a quarter of the room. Imoen's arrow flew past me and embedded itself in the floor in the middle of a pool of oil. It took a few moments for the oil to wick its way up the shaft to the burning rag, but once it did, it caught fire and quickly spread. Imoen pointed to another lamp. I nodded and shot it, adding its contents to the oil scattered around the room.

"So," Imoen asked, as we watched to ensure that the fire spread to take in the house, "What happened with the range boss?"

"Eh?" I asked, "Oh! Well, once everyone was done shooting, and our targets brought back for scoring, we discovered that my target had 100 holes in it. And 95 of them were in the head. The other 5 were in the upper chest. That's when I got my first marksman's medal." I saw the fire reach a wall hanging, and let out a sigh of relief. "That should do the trick. If nothing else, it should get the fire into the upper floor."

"That's it?" Imoen asked. "Your first time with a rifle, and you killed your target 100 times out of 100?"

"Yeah," I said. "The range boss didn't believe it, either. The range boss at my next training center as much as told me. But then he saw me hit every time with the machine gun, and drop every single grenade through the window targets we had with a grenade launcher. Every time, it was the same thing. I picked up the weapon, and I felt this calmness come over me, like the world had slowed to a standstill and I could pick out exactly where I wanted my bullets to go. On Earth, they talk about zen archery, where the archer becomes one with his bow, his arrow, and his target, and he doesn't actually shoot the arrow, he just reaches out and touches the target. That's what it's like for me when I'm using a gun."

"I'd heard of it," Imoen said, "But until today, I'd never seen it. Now I understand why you want to find a Gondite."

The fire was spreading rapidly. It had surrounded the bodies, and I saw their clothing begin to catch. The bloated body suddenly ruptured, and dozens of spiders, all about the size of a fist, poured out. Imoen and I backed away from the window, just in time to avoid being hit in the face by burning curtains. We slammed the shutters closed and backed away from the house.

"Barn?" I asked.

"Barn," Imoen said, nodding.

We made our way around the house, watching for escaping spiderlings as we did. With no spiderlings making their appearance, we approached the barn. The doors were open, and inside was nothing but a mass of webbing. It was obvious that the huge spider had turned the barn into its personal nest.

"No point in going inside, I think," I said. "Fireball?"

"I think you're right," Imoen said. "Stand back."

She began chanting, while I stepped back so that I could shoot anything that came near her, but wasn't in the way of her spell. Suddenly, she pointed into the barn, and a bullet shot from her finger. It hit something inside the barn, and exploded in a roaring ball of fire. The entire inside of the barn instantly became an inferno, to match what the house had finally become.

Once we were sure the barn was burning, Imoen and I began trudging back toward the trail. When we got to the spot where the enormous spider had died, I stopped and began gathering up my empty cases. I knew I'd probably lose some, but I wanted to get as many as I could, in case I could get what I needed to reload them.

"What are you doing?" Imoen asked.

"Retrieving my empty cases," I said. "Do you see any?"

"Just a second," she said. "Can I have one of them?"

"Sure." I handed her one of the cases, and she began chanting. Suddenly, every empty case, from every bullet I had fired, came flying from all directions, and landed in a heap in front of me.

"There you go," Imoen said. "Gather cantrip works wonders, don't you think?"

I didn't know what to say, so I kissed her and whispered, "Thank you," as I hugged her tight.


	6. Chapter 6

"I cannot believe anyone could possibly be that incompetent, MacManus!" Stedd Buckman, the instructor Mayheir had promised me, yelled as my shot zipped through the air toward the training target, only to zip past it without so much as scratching the linen covering. Behind the target, every single bolt I had fired so far was embedded in the backstop of heavy planks. Not one had so much as touched the target.

"It's like I said before," I said, as I cocked and loaded another bolt into the crossbow, "I can not hit a bullseye. If you want me to hit a target, give me one that looks like a living being. Hell, even a scarecrow would work better than these bullseye targets."

"You're not getting another target until you prove to me that you can hit these," Buckman growled.

I looked at him for a moment, shrugged, and then fired the crossbow. Once again, the bolt missed the target entirely. I put the crossbow down and looked at Buckman.

"In that case," I said, "this is a waste of both my time and yours. Good day to you, sir."

I picked up the crossbow and walked to the rack where it was stored. Once I had put it away, I turned to leave, and bumped into Mayheir.

"Leaving already, Fred?" Mayheir asked.

"I am," I said. "It's not worth wasting my time or Buckman's. Obviously, he has a fixed idea of how to train someone, and it doesn't work for me."

"Oh?" Mayheir cocked an eyebrow. "What seems to be the problem?"

"Oh, that's simple enough," I said. "I can't hit the broad side of a barn, if there's a bullseye painted on it. I told Buckman that, but he is fixed in his position that I will not graduate to any other kind of target until I score high enough on his bullseyes."

"Wait," Mayheir said, shaking his head. "You mean to tell me that the same guy who killed all those spiders yesterday, can't hit a bullseye to save his life?"

"That pretty much sums it up," I said. "I never have been able to."

"This, I have to see," Mayheir said. "Would you indulge me?"

"All right," I said, shrugged, and picked up the crossbow again.

As we approached the firing line, Buckman began his litany of complaints to Mayheir. "Sir! MacManus is the most insolent, insubordinate, incompetent trainee I have ever encountered! He actually had the gall to try to dictate to me what kind of targets I should use in training him!"

"So I've heard," Mayheir said. "I'm here to see for myself."

"See all the bolts in the backstop?" I asked. "Mine."

"I see," Mayheir said. "Why not give me a few more shots, just so I can say I've seen it for myself?"

"All right," I said, shrugging. I cocked and loaded the crossbow, then fired, once again, completely missing the target.

After a half-dozen similar shots, Mayheir stopped me. "I believe I see what you mean," he said. "Your technique and form look good, so I can't see a reason for never hitting the target, but now I've seen it. Why don't you retrieve your bolts, while I bring in a different target?"

"As long as it's shaped like a living being, I can hit it," I said, as I put down the crossbow and started downrange to retrieve my bolts.

By the time I had recovered every bolt I had fired, Mayheir had had a half-dozen new targets brought in. Four of them were the practice dummies I'd seen guards using to hone their sword skills, and two of them were roughly shaped like deer.

"Think you can do something with these?" Mayheir asked, deadpan.

"I think I might be able to," I said. I put the bolts down on the bench where I had placed the crossbow, then picked up and loaded the crossbow. "Just say the word, and we'll see."

"Fire at will," Mayheir said.

I brought the crossbow to my shoulder, and felt the calmness settle over me. I loosed the first bolt, and without waiting to see where it hit, I immediately loaded the next, picked my next target, and fired. The calmness remained with me until I had fired every bolt on the bench and put down the crossbow.

"All right," Mayheir said. "I think I can believe what Lady Imoen told me."

I looked downrange, and saw that every single target Mayheir had brought in was bristling with bolts, all of which were firmly embedded in the target's kill zone, most of which were in the head or neck.

"Before you ask, I don't know how I do it," I said. "I just feel a kind of total calmness when I'm shooting, and hitting the target just feels as if I'm reaching out and touching it, not as if I'm trying to hit it with a missile. I don't get that with a bullseye."

"Interesting," Mayheir said. "I've heard of something like that, but never seen it until now." He turned to Buckman and said, "Don't waste your time trying to teach him to shoot. Stick to sword training."

"Thank you," I said. "I barely know which end to hold, let alone how to use one effectively."

"Did you bring your own sword?" Mayheir asked.

"I did," I said. "I got lucky. Bronn Selgard had a suitable sword in his stock."

I walked to where I had put down my coat and fanny pack, and picked up the sword I had bought before coming to the Twisted Tower. With the sword still in its scabbard, I walked back to join Mayheir and Buckman. "This is the sword I need to learn how to use."

"A bastard sword," Buckman said. "You want to start by learning on a bastard sword." He stared at me as if I had grown a second head. "You want to learn how to use a bastard sword."

"That's what I said," I said. "It's kind of mandatory."

"Mandatory?" Mayheir asked, obviously curious.

"Kelemvor," I said.

"Now, that brings back some memories," Mayheir said. "He was a damned good man, even if he was traveling with that little weasel. When I heard he'd finally managed to kick the weasel's ass and take his place, I had to hoist a drink in his honor." He gave me an appraising look. "So, you're planning to be one of his, eh? In that case, the bastard sword makes sense."

"Even if it makes sense, he's going to have to find another trainer," Buckman said. "I'm not trained in how to use one of those monstrosities."

"That does pose a problem," Mayheir said, scratching his head. "Have you asked your priest at the Old Skull?"

"Not yet," I said. "That's a good idea, though."

"That's what they pay me for," Mayheir said, flashing an amused grin. Then he dropped the grin and said, "Since you're starting out with a bastard sword, you should focus all your energies on learning it. Once you're comfortable with your ability with it, you can come back here and train on other weapons. Until then, if you happen to drop by and ask about jobs, I'll see what I can find. Oh, yes, and if you and your ladies were to visit Lord Mourngrym, I'm sure it would brighten his day. He doesn't get out nearly as much as he'd like, what with all the bureaucratic bullshit he has to deal with, and getting visitors to stop by and tell him their stories gives him an honest reason to take a break from the crap."

"I think you can count on us to come by soon, then," I said. "If he hates bureaucratic bullshit as much as I do, he'll even be willing to put up with us."

"I'll hold you to that," Mayheir said, as he escorted me out of the training area. He handed me a bag of coins. "Meanwhile, take this. Lord Mourngrym agreed that you deserve a reward for dealing with those spiders before they got any more out of hand."

"No, no," Ander said, "this is a perfectly good box – for keeping supplies in for a household shrine. It's just too big and bulky for use when you're traveling. And votives are an utter disaster when you're traveling. Too easy for the glass in the holders to get broken." He opened his pack and pulled out a flat box that was made of a clean, light-colored wood. It was worn from use, but that wear mostly just gave it a smooth polish, without any kind of clear coat. "This is my traveling altar. It's made of spruce, so it's light enough to pack, and you can see how thin it is. There's enough room in it to carry a month's worth of incense sticks, a half-dozen candles, an altar cloth, a prayer book, and a few sheets of parchment. I keep my pen and ink in a separate case, since I'm not called on to write down the stories of the dead every time I'm at prayer."

Ander opened the top of his altar box, to reveal that the inside was neatly packed with everything he had described. The candles were six-inch beeswax tapers, and the altar cloth was folded on top of everything else, so its bulk helped keep it from shifting during travel. He took out his prayer book, altar cloth, two candles, and a stick of incense, and arranged them on top of the closed box. The cloth was laid along its length, hanging evenly over both ends, the prayer book rested on the altar cloth, and the candles and incense were inserted into holes that were drilled into the lid for them. He looked in his pack and took out a sparker, that looked exactly like the sparkers used for igniting welding torches, and held it over the end of one of the candles while he began furiously working it.

"This is the only part of setting up the altar that I hate," Ander said.

"You know, I'll bet we could get a smith to make one of these for you," I said, as I took my lighter out of my fanny pack and offered it to him. "Back home, we call one of these a Zippo, because that's who makes the best ones. It's just brass, felt, a lamp wick, flint and steel, and lamp oil."

"A Zippo?" Ander asked, then took the lighter and looked at it for a few moments, before opening the lid and examined the workings curiously. "Fascinating. I'm not sure who can work a flint that small, but if it works, it would make life so much easier." He pressed his thumb against the wheel, then flicked the mechanism, lighting it. "All right, I would be truly grateful if you could convince a smith to make one of these for me. But you said it includes felt? Why?"

"The felt soaks up the oil so it doesn't leak in your pouch," I said. "I hate oil stains, and I hate worrying that whatever I had the lighter in might be flammable because it leaked."

"A reasonable – and practical – precaution," Ander said. He held the lighter to the candles, closed it, and handed it to me before lighting the incense from one of the candles. While I was putting away the lighter, he picked up his prayer book, opened it to a page that had obviously been used many times, and offered it to me. "Care to read the evening prayers?"

"I'd love to," I said, taking the book. Then I looked at it and realized what I should have realized as soon as he picked it up – it was written in the Thorass alphabet, not in the Latin alphabet. I let out a heavy sigh. "If I could read it, that is. Unfortunately, I've just started learning this alphabet."

"You've just started learning," Ander said, giving me a look of disbelief. "What alphabet were you using, when you wrote down all those stories, if not this one?"

"The Latin alphabet," I said. "It's the most common alphabet where I come from."

"And you've never learned this alphabet?" Ander asked.

"I've never even seen it, except in a picture in a book," I said. "Sorry."

"A picture in a book," Ander said, his look of disbelief fixed on the annoyed side of the spectrum.

"Seriously," I said. "That's why the only language I speak is Common, and why I do it with an accent. Common is very similar to the language I grew up with."

"All right," Ander said, "I'm going to have to hear your story. After prayers."

**Kelemvor, Great Guide, I bow before your glory.**

**As the sun sets, I trust in your glory to light the night.**

**I offer my praise and thanks for the greatness that is your strength.**

**May your strength shelter me, as it shelters the dead.**

**May your glory light my path, so I will not lose my way.**

**Kelemvor, I turn to you,**

**Trusting in you to protect and guide me.**

**As the darkness comes, I lean on you.**

**Be my strength and light,**

**And I will ever trust in you.**

With the basic prayers done, Ander instructed me in the basics of how to pray for daily spells, starting with simple cantrips. I was surprised that he was starting me off on spells so quickly, but didn't protest, since I'd already seen how useful cantrips could be, when Imoen had demonstrated one of hers out at the spider-ravaged farm.

"To answer the question that's probably racing through your head at the moment," Ander said, when he called a stop, "you're going to need those cantrips to help you manage while you're training. Since you have more important things to worry about than cleaning and organizing things, we always start off with cantrips that let you not only manage little chores like that without wasting your time, but also help you become accustomed to the feeling of divine power flowing through you." He used one of the cantrips he had just taught me, and all the incense ash and wax drippings were cleaned away from his altar box. "Now, my guess is that your ladies are waiting for you downstairs – hopefully with your dinner already ordered and waiting at your table – so we should adjourn for the evening. We'll do some sword work in the morning, after morning prayers."

With that, Ander ushered me out of his room, and we took the stairs down to the ground floor, discussing the details of how to know what spells to pray for, planning for the next day when doing evening prayers, and so on.

"Here's your man, ladies," Ander announced, bringing my attention back to the taproom. He chuckled and started toward his own group's table, leaving me to face Imoen and Lada on my own.

At least, I would have faced them, if Lada had been at the table with Imoen. I walked around the table, bent down to give Imoen a quick kiss, and asked as I was settling into my seat, "You're all alone?"

"By the time Kara was done with her," Imoen said, after returning my kiss enthusiastically, "Lada could barely drag herself back into the inn. Dora and I got her upstairs and into bed. She was out before we could get to the door." She looked over toward the table where Ander, Kara, and their companions, were talking cheerfully. "I knew monks worked hard, but I didn't realize just how hard. If she'd tried what Kara had her doing today, back on Earth, she'd have probably had that aneurysm you were talking about."

"And what were you up to all day, sweetheart?" I asked. "You can't have spent the whole day watching them training. That would have been too boring."

"Meanie!" Imoen laughed, gently poking my arm. "No, I didn't spend the whole day watching them. I paid a visit to someone who I'll bet you could ask to train you, if you felt confident enough. At least, she could train you in swordplay. Probably in other things, too, if you didn't let that paladin label Ander seems eager to hang on you get in your way."

"Let me guess," I mused, hiding a smile behind steepled fingers. "Stunningly beautiful, master of weapons ranging from axes to well-placed words, and good enough with magic to teach you?"

"Well …," Imoen started, then laughed as she caught my smile. "All right, all right, she's gorgeous enough that I'm tempted by her, but I doubt she'd be interested, unless it was as a cover for a mission. And, yes, we talked magic all afternoon. When she wasn't fixing boo-boos for the neighboring farm kids, giving directions to some passing travelers, and parceling out crates of potatoes to some farmers who dropped by not long before I came back here."

"Just the way they describe her, huh?" I asked. "I wouldn't mind meeting her at all. Or her sister. Well, most of her sisters, anyway. I'm not sure I'm confident enough to spend any time in the same house as Elminster's girlfriend, let alone the same room."

"She … has … a sister … who's … seeing … Elminster?" Imoen asked, staring at me in shock.

"Well, according to 'that silly game', as he likes to call it, yes," I said. "Ever hear of The Simbul?"

"That's like asking if I've ever heard of an earthquake!" Imoen laughed. "Who hasn't?"

"No one I can think of," I said. I looked up and smiled as Dora approached our table. "Hi, Dora. What's good tonight? I'm in the mood for something that'll stay with me through the morning."

Dora smiled, set a pitcher and two mugs on the table, then said, "I took a tray of sandwiches up to your room, for when Lada wakes. For you, the choice is between mutton pie, roast pork and vegetables, or beef stew."

"I'm not _that_ hungry," Imoen said, grinning at me.

"Oh, in that case," Dora said, "we also have grilled trout, chicken, or sandwiches."

"I'll take the mutton pie," I said. Then I laughed as a thought occurred to me, and I asked, "You wouldn't happen to ever serve haggis, would you?"

"Haggis?" Dora asked, looking at me curiously.

"Probably another strange food from where he comes from. I think I'd like the trout," Imoen said, then stuck her tongue out at me.

"Later," I shot back at Imoen before turning my attention to Dora while Imoen turned pink and humphed, while trying to hide a smile. "Haggis. The best thing to ever happen to sausage. It's a big, hearty sausage, that's a meal all by itself. I'll have to see if I have the recipe written down somewhere, or if I"ll have to pass it on from memory."

"More profit?" Dora asked, chuckling.

"Depends," I said, "on how many sheep herders come here to eat. Where I come from, it's the national dish of a country that's famous for its sheep."

"You can talk about it tomorrow," Imoen said, firmly squeezing my arm as she did. "Tonight, we talk about possible jobs."

"Yes, dear," I said, while smiling apologetically at Dora. "Tonight, we talk about possible jobs. Got it."


End file.
